I am about to say something that has needed to be said, and I hope you forgive me if it sounds a little blunt:We stink.I am talking about fans at the Palace. I am talking about their attitude and their volume. I am saying it now, because if this city really wants the Pistons to get serious tonight against the Bulls, well, we ought to heed our own advice.
I hear voices. I open my door. Look who's on my porch, singing Christmas Carols . . . * George Foreman: "The Christmas Song" Chestnuts roasting on an open fireWhipped cream hanging from my nosePumpkin pies and a burger or twoAnd milk shakes, fries, and Cheerios,Everybody knows, a turkey and some Pizza HutThey enable me to punchWhen Holyfield drops, I'll eat Tootsie Pops,And wait for Tyson, hey, where's my lunch?* Sergei Fedorov: "Winter Wonderland"Sleigh bells ring, I am scoringIn the room, I am snoring
CHICAGO -- His fingers were raw and he blew cold smoke with every command, but Erik Kramer fought the wind and frantically waved his teammates into position because he still believed something could happen, even as the clock ticked down its final seconds. Unfortunately, he was so involved with this idea that he lined up under the wrong man, the guard instead of the center, and almost goosed the poor guy offsides.
NEW YORK -- He swung the bat and he heard that smack! and suddenly the ball was screaming toward the upper deck in left field, and good night, this one was halfway to Jupiter. His teammates leaped off the bench. Even the Yankee fans roared. And finally, the man who all year refused to watch his home runs, the man who said this 50 thing was "no big deal" -- finally, even he couldn't help himself. He stopped about halfway to first base and watched his ball bang down in the deep blue seats of Section 32, waking up the ghosts of Maris and Ruth and Gehrig.
There were no tears when he stepped to the podium, nothing weak or mushy. Would Chuck Daly ever go mushy in public? Besides, when he first arrived here nine years ago, he couldn't have filled a bus stop if he called a news conference, and now there were hundreds of important people crammed inside a suburban joint that bears his name -- Chuck Daly's Great Northern Restaurant -- to bid him adieu. So hey. Why cry? Business was booming.
TIGER STADIUM, SEPT. 1, 1990 -- Ever since Cecil Fielder hit his 62nd home run of the season last week, things have been pretty crazy around here. You can't get near the stadium. The line forms before dawn -- reporters, mostly. From New York, London, Moscow. About 900 reporters are here from Japan, and all they want to know is how many yen it would take to get Cecil back there for another season. At last count, they were up to 873 billion.
LONDON -- Ah, England. My favorite place to watch baseball."Baseball?" you say. "They don't have baseball over there." You are correct. They also don't have cursing at umpires, free agency, domed stadiums or Rickey Henderson. They don't have players driving drunk. They don't have agents moaning "$3 million a year is an insult to my client."All they have on baseball is what you find on the back pages of the British newspapers: the scores from two days ago, and the standings.You know what? You could fall in love with the game all over again.
It's true, as a cop, I have plenty of weird days. But this was the weirdest. The chief calls. Wants me to interrogate a ball and a bat. I'm not kidding. A ball, a bat, and me. Down at the station. Under the hot lights."All right," I says, opening my notebook, "Mr. Bat, we'll start with you. The report claims you were kidnapped.""That's right," the bat says. He talks like he's ready to hit something. "In the middle of the game, some guy pops out of the ceiling, grabs me, and hides me in the venting system.""You must have been scared."
Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.
